The movies never really get it right. They make some things so much fancier and prettier than it really is.
The people with me, they get along.
And I’m not saying I don’t get along with other people; that part is easy. What I’m really saying is that people usually don’t have such perfect conversations. They don’t just go from talking to arguing and back so smoothly. I’m not sure what I’m trying to say except that I think... I think that the movies get it so right, get it perfect, and because it’s perfect, it comes off fake. Yeah, that’s it. I’m walking with three characters from an adventure movie I watched when I was a kid.
I watched the hell out of this movie.
We’re about to find a dead body.
It’s the discovery that defines our summer.
But it’s also the discovery that defines our lives. Some of us never make it past this discovery. It kind of warps our minds.
But we’re living a perfect moment. It’s summer and we’re kids and we’re friends. What gets better than that? In this dream, the dream I’m gripping on to, just waiting for its strange turns, it doesn’t. We walk through that forest to the rocky line where it slopes into a gorge.
One character says something.
Another character says something.
A third character says something.
And then I say something.
But there’s no overlap unless we’re supposed to be arguing. There’s a rhythm to the way we talk. We’re friends. That’s how we’re defined. I don’t know anything about them—let’s just say that I don’t even though I’ve seen the movie a thousand times—and we’re best of friends, looking for some great adventure.
It’s just like that Friday when I ran. There was Brad and Blaire and... that other kid. Steve, yeah, that’s his name. I barely knew him and he barely knew me. It’s just like that day, except the characters here are written in the script to get along.
I walk with them and I say my lines.
I walk with them, but I’m more interested in the knowledge that this is about to change. I can almost sense it coming. In my dream, I’m able to think my way through the events as they happen. It’s so cool that I can, that I know how this will come together. I should be bored, but it’s like I’m walking through the scene of the movie as it’s being filmed.
I’m like, “Where’s the camera?” right as it all changes.
Instead of the gorge and the dead body, it’s Falter Kingdom. I can see the crown, the dark tunnel, the sort of doom and gloom that you always feel around the place. One second I’m in a movie and the next second it’s me, standing there with the rest of them; I’m talking about Blaire and Brad and Steve. We’re as we really were, and there’s Brad talking to Steve.
This is how real people talk. It’s not pretty. It’s more annoying than anything else.
I hear them talking about Nikki. It’s just like the usual, Brad always bringing up the gossip, Nikki at the top of the list.
“You guys hear?”
No, I didn’t hear, Brad.
And then there’s Blaire. Blaire looks miserable. She’s always so focused on school and the future. All that stuff. Then there’s that kid Steve, but let’s just move on because whatever.
Who’s left but, oh yeah, me. I’m drinking beer, downing them one after the other, which makes Blaire kind of worried; she notices while Brad gets competitive.
I knew that he would and there I am, knowing just what to say to make it not be about me. But on this day, it becomes all about me. Everything turns and the dream does too. It turns all on me. Eyes on me, like I asked to be the main character. Even I’m looking at me. But then I start tossing and turning in my sleep. Something’s weird about this.
The details are different. They don’t add it up.
It’s not just the details either. It’s the perspective.
I’m seeing from somewhere else... and it’s not until I’m walking up—that’s me, walking up to Brad and Steve—that I get it.
I get it now.
I’m not really listening to them and I’m drinking and then it kind of just happens before I even realize it. I tell them that I’ll do it.
Funny how one stupid thing can turn everything upside down.
Everything’s upside down and I’m seeing it all happen.
I’m running down the tunnel like it’s so damn easy. I’m running all drunk, almost tripping on my toes.
I’m running toward you.
And then I pass you by. It’s like you’re running after me. It’s like you’re the camera and I’m the main character, being filmed.
But this isn’t anything like that. This is what you saw, right? This is what you’re trying to tell me.
You leave me though. You let me run and you turn and look back at what happens when their timers go off. First it’s Blaire, who says, “Oh no...”
And then it’s Steve who says, “Hunter?” He sounds insincere, kind of worried but clearly doesn’t care.
And then it’s Brad who starts freaking out: “What the fuck?” But that doesn’t stop him from shotgunning a can of beer.
Blaire tells him, “Something’s wrong.”
“Shit,” Brad says, beer running down the sides of his mouth.
Steve starts backing away from the opening of the tunnel.
Brad notices. “Shit, how long’s he been in there?”
Blaire doesn’t have to check. She knows exactly how long.
But I don’t hear that part. You decide to move on, back to me, running. You join me where you left me, and it’s only at that point that I am able to move forward. I was running in place? I start grinding my teeth. I never grind my teeth in my sleep.
Back to Blaire, who’s the only one left.
I know where Brad went. Like Steve, he was scared. He didn’t want to be involved, thinking about himself first. When Blaire called him out on it, he shouted, “We’ll get help!” They were both so scared they couldn’t move.
I know because you know.
It’s the only way I’m able to know.
You reach out to me and touch me, but I don’t see your hand and I don’t notice you when you do; but that gets me to stop. That sends the signal to go back. But you’re with me the entire run back.
You’re at my side when I walk the trail back to my car.
You’re right there, in the front passenger seat, when I pull out of the Meadows parking lot.
You’re right there.
My body and mind are telling me that this is bad. I’m starting to shake in my sleep, but something else, the fact that the dream keeps going... it keeps me from just pushing away. My curiosity makes me turn the next corner. But instead of driving home, I’m driving back.
It’s three A.M.
I know because you know. It’s three A.M. the previous night and I’m driving. I make that exit and I end up on that dirt road. I sit there for a while and you stand outside, watching me from the front of the car. At one point, I look right at you and I’m able to see what I look like. I look different somehow. I don’t know.
Turn another corner, on foot, and I walk toward you.
I turn my attention to you.
It’s the darkness of night and it’s like that person standing at the opening of Falter Kingdom... it’s like that person isn’t really me.
You look at me and I look back.
I see what you see.
That person sits down. That person seems to be really patient, like he has nowhere else to go.
For a while, there’s nothing, one watching the other.
But then there’s the familiar voice: “H, you there?”
And then I hear you say, from deep within the tunnel...
Yes.
The word hangs there, and it’s my voice. But it doesn’t register as a real word. Like everything else, even in the context of a dream, you sound like me and you send everything in the only way that’s possible. It makes complete sense but, at the same time, things don’t se
em to add up.
They don’t need to add up.
They just are.
And then the words “How are you feeling?” they reach the very back of the tunnel. I can hear them in this dream, which means you could hear them when I said them.
I hear a rumbling noise, a low voice.
It seems like you’re getting closer to that person, to me.
I’m sitting there, all deep in thought, totally not seeing you in the dark of the tunnel. You get closer and closer and closer.
When I move to leave and say, “See you around,” you’re right there with me.
I see what you see and from where you stood: you could see my breath in the air, chilled, but I didn’t seem to notice that night.
You watch me walk back.
You watch and I watch.
And then you say...
See you around.
Next thing I know I’m on the couch, awake.
8
I WAKE UP HAPPY AND IT’S WEIRD, YEAH. I REMEMBER everything and it kind of, well, it gives me something to think about. It’s all going to end at some point, right? Like, I could be like everyone else and just be like, “The exorcism is next week.” I could be like that but I think I’m way beyond that kind of stuff. It’ll happen, yeah, I’m not forgetting that, but really, this is my chance to learn more. This is my one chance to explore. I mean, seriously, after what happened after the party, after that dream, I’m so excited.
I wake up refreshed, feeling like I have a ton of energy.
Also bizarre, but I’ll take it. Can’t wait to see what happens next.
I go to my room, looking at the time on my phone and, damn, it’s early. But not early enough to see that H has changed some things around. I look in my closet and it’s kind of like, “Um, I used to have more clothes than this...”
But the laptop’s still there, on my desk. I walk over and look. I google some possession porn videos because maybe they’ll give me some understanding, I don’t know, and I end up watching this one that shows a before and after of someone’s possession. It’s mostly about the person’s exorcism. They don’t even go far enough to have any of the dreams, any of the lapses in time and consciousness and shit. They get it done quick, and the fact that they did really makes me feel better.
I say, “This one’s like all the others.”
And it’s not like I’m talking to myself. It really isn’t.
I don’t realize that I’m shivering, goose bumps on my arms and everything. I’m wearing only boxers and a T-shirt that’s been sweat through.
Again, I have to be like, “Um, I used to be wearing more clothes than this...” I scratch at my palms, some sort of rash maybe, but I push that to the side when I hear a car door close outside. I don’t want that person to see me at the window, so I do that thing where you hide at the side of the window and take short glances, not even, like, ten seconds each. I see a white car. Not Mom’s or Dad’s...
Second time I look, I see a familiar man.
Then the doorbell.
“Who the hell is that?”
But then I know. It clicks—Father Albert. It’s like the information was given to me.
You did that, didn’t you?
I stand there a second, curious to see if I’ll know... but nothing happens. The doorbell is pressed a second time.
Dammit. I put on some clothes, whatever I can find.
Running down the stairs, I say something like, “Does your kind actually get hurt by all that religious stuff?”
I’m in for a surprise when I open the door. One look at Father Albert and you tell me. No. It, like, holds there, as if right on Father Albert’s forehead, the word “no” hanging there. Like it’s you, trying to make me laugh.
“Greetings, Hunter,” Father Albert says.
The way he looks at me, I notice.
I can’t help but get angry when I see his face, how he just kind of judges me and acts all fake. I know that he thinks I’m sick and falling apart because of what’s happening. I know that it’s his job to be here, to help me, but the first thing he could do is just be real. Say it, man. Say it: You look like shit.
I reply, “Hi,” and I feel like shit when I say it.
Funny how it all switches when someone like Father Albert shows up.
He walks into the foyer, hands folded, Bible pressed against his chest. He looks around, and I just know that he’s trying to sense where H is.
“He’s looking for you,” I whisper.
I think about what might happen. I really don’t know what’s going to happen. I wonder...
“How are you feeling on this fine morning, Hunter?”
What do you want me to say? I shrug and say the first thing that comes to mind: “I’m really tired but I’m, uh, fine. Just fine.”
Why is it so hard to speak? Like, it was really hard to just get that out. It’s like I don’t even want to keep up appearances. It’s like, whatever.
Father Albert with his fake grin. “On this morn, we will begin our process. First, I’d like to bless the house. This will not take long.”
“Okay,” I say, and Father Albert leads the way.
I whisper, “What does this do?”
I kind of expect H to respond, but then Father Albert’s like, “This will help cleanse your place of rest. A home should not be invaded. It is a sacred place, for it is where you have chosen to occupy and place meaning. This is the reason an unclean spirit will attach itself to a location. It will try to get your attention. Once it gets your attention, it will attempt to make contact. Once it does that, as we have discussed previously, during our meeting, it will begin the principles of infestation.”
“Infestation,” I mumble.
“Mm-hmm.” Father Albert nods, walking into the kitchen. “You will experience a variety of advanced symptoms. One of the most popular symptoms is a late-stage sense of lethargy. Additionally, cognitive dissonance.”
Father Albert stops, puts a hand on my shoulder, and I want to slap it off. I want to say something like, Stop being so fake. Tell me how far gone I am. Just tell me and you’ll still get that payday.
He leans forward. “Pray with me.”
I’m not praying with you.
He makes the sign of the cross, folds his hands together, and starts on some prayer that I really can’t stand to listen.
I’m mumbling stuff like, “This really works, yeah, really?”
But when I hear a rumbling from deep within the house, I start thinking that maybe H is wrong. Father Albert really can hurt him. It’s kind of like... a double take. I’m like, Wait? What’s happening?
Father Albert walks into the next room, the family room, and starts making hand gestures.
He doesn’t stop praying.
I hear the same rumbling. It’s getting louder.
I close my eyes and I don’t know why. My bottom lip starts to quiver and I don’t know why. A lot of things happen and I don’t know why.
But the fact that I don’t know doesn’t seem to bother me.
Father Albert says my name, and I open my eyes. He wants me to follow him upstairs.
As we do, he continues the prayer. He blesses every room, but we step into only mine. Right as he walks in, he stops praying. Father Albert notices the drop in temperature but doesn’t say anything. He kind of looks around my room in a weird way, and I can tell that this isn’t normal. I watch from the hallway, completely separate from the fact that he is in my room, judging my things, and more than all of that, he’s judging me.
It makes me feel like I’m the one who’s at fault. Like this is my fault. Father Albert looks at my bed and it’s like he’s thinking that it’s pathetic.
It makes me mad.
Really mad.
When he looks back at me, waving me in—“Dear son, please, be by my side”—I want to punch him. I want to push him to the ground. I come up with a dozen things I want to do to him and they all end the same way: he leaves and never comes back. I’m
like, Why do you get to judge me? Can I judge you? Can I tell you how fake you are? How you probably never had one single original thought in your head? How you probably never did anything interesting in life? You just followed the same footsteps and ended up where you are, Father Albert.
But there I am, standing at his side.
He places a hand on my forehead and I’m surprised by how warm it is. It’s like almost scalding hot.
He starts reciting another prayer.
In this moment, I start to feel a little sick.
“Hunter, stay with me, son,” Father Albert says.
I want this to end. That’s what I’m thinking.
I want this to end.
I want this to end. I repeat it in my head, like some kind of message that won’t send. I want this to end.
I start shaking.
I want this to end.
Father Albert says, “In the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit...”
I want this to end. Now.
Suddenly the bedroom door shuts.
Father Albert stops praying.
We start hearing the scratching sounds.
It gets colder. I remember the cold. I see my breath and Father Albert’s too. I can still feel the heat on my forehead. I know that you never left, and then I also see what’s about to happen.
I start to feel better.
Father Albert keeps telling me, “It will be okay, son.”
He holds on to my hand. The look on his face, the way his lips still move, he’s reciting the rosary. I see the beaded necklace in his hand. Oh, so that’s what it is. I didn’t know until just now what that was.
Then we hear the rumbling again.
Father Albert closes his Bible, tells me, “It appears as though the situation is far more advanced than previously specified.”
Like that’s my fault. Right? My fault?
“I told you what I knew.”
Father Albert nods.
I ask him, “What are you going to do now?”
Just because I’m curious.
Does a priest get afraid?
Father Albert keeps cool. Of course Father Albert always keeps his cool. I kind of want him to just be real. I want him to jump in fear. I want him to start praying for his own safety. I want him to be like, “Damn, man, this is bad.”
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